(For Eduardo Chirinos)

Downstairs I left a candle burning
In its light I'll read a few lines when I return

By the time I returned the candle had burned out
Those few lines had faded like innocence

You walk with me
The way moon walks along with a child sitting in a train window

I stood in the balcony one day
Waved a handkerchief toward the sky

Those who have gone without saying their goodbyes
Will recognize it even from far

In my handkerchief they have left behind their tears
The way early humans left behind their etchings on cave walls

Lyotard said, every sentence is a now
No. Actually it's a memory of now

Every memory is a poem
In our books, the count of the unwritten poems is so much more